


Still On Duty

by millennialfalcon



Series: my personal crusade to top every clone [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Captain Rex - Freeform, F/M, Gratuitous Smut, Some Plot, but like barely any, fem!reader - Freeform, i don't know how star wars mechanics work and i'm not going to learn, i just think i should get to top Rex at all times, sub!Rex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:47:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29494566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millennialfalcon/pseuds/millennialfalcon
Summary: The beginning of a week-long leave finds you still working, much to your chagrin. the captain of the 501st proves to be a worthy distraction.
Relationships: CT-7567 | Rex/Reader
Series: my personal crusade to top every clone [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2196240
Comments: 5
Kudos: 94





	Still On Duty

**Author's Note:**

> ciao this is my first clone x reader fic, also first smut i’ve ever written?? anyway this one goes out to all the amazing star wars + clone wars content creators that have inspired me to not only be my thottiest self unapologetically but to get that shit down on paper!! thank you for ur service my comrades in arms. i bow to thee.

It’s dinner time, and though the sun sank slowly below the horizon, painting the sky brilliant shades of pinks and reds, the light of Coruscant barely dims. At least you were planetside to see the sunset.

It had been a long campaign throughout the Mid-Rim, hopping from war torn planet to war torn planet. Everyone was tired, and the short week of leave the 501st had been granted was only just beginning. Hence the empty hanger – most everyone was either stuffing themselves with real, cooked food, passed out in the barracks, or living it up at 79’s.

Most everyone except you, it seems.

The torso of your orange flight suit tied around your waist by its sleeves, you pluck another piece of electrical tape from your bare forearm, a good enough place for safekeeping. Twisting the frayed ends of the two wires together and sealing the connection with the black tape, you hope for your own safety you’re not overcharging the output. You study the wire board you had unearthed from the underside of the hull, the placement of everything lopsided and mirrored from the diagram you’d hastily glanced at before diving head first into this ship’s electrical guts.

A transport’s HUD has gone offline right before touchdown; everyone on board was lucky the landing sequence has already been engaged. But another company needs the ship tomorrow for an emergency relief mission, so here you are, hanging upside down from one of the ship’s support beams, trying your best to fix the electrical interface even though you’re technically a mechanic and not an electrical engineer.

It’s tiresome. You told the deck officer you aren’t well-versed in electrical outputs, but of course he didn’t listen and now you’re stuck hanging upside down like a damn mynock, hungry and tired and getting a headache —

Footsteps. Echoing, heavy footsteps. Who else would be wandering around here right now? Didn’t they know the entire legion was on leave?

You cock your head toward the noise, so much louder in the empty hanger, to see a clone walk toward a damaged fighter a few yards away, data pad in hand. But not just any clone, no. You squint to get a better look, wipe the sweat from your eyes. Blue-trimmed kama, bulky pauldron, a pistol blaster on each hip. His head turns just enough for you to make out the stylized jaig eyes.

Oh. _Oh_. Your breath catches as your brain formulates a haphazard plan at light speed. The smirk that blooms on your face is involuntary. _This is going to be fun._

You manage to flip yourself upright on the hull’s support beam and drop to the floor. Wire cutters and wrench tucked snuggly in your utility belt, you straighten your tank undershirt, perpetually stained with oil, in a vain attempt to look a bit more presentable. 

You peek around the hull of the transport. Rex, with his back to you, inspects the fighter, apparently oblivious to your presence. Playing electrician will have to wait.

You school your expression and step out from behind the transport. You speak in a commanding voice, the solid timbre echoing in the deserted hanger. “Hey, Captain Rex.”

His head whips toward you, spine taut at attention. But once he sees you sauntering toward him, a smirk playing on your lips, his shoulders visibly relax. He leans against the fighter and cocks his hip, the usual harsh lines and ridged angles of his demeanor melting away to smooth and gentle slopes. A feeling smolders deep in your stomach, the fact that you have that kind of power – to make him pliant.

“Hey yourself,” he greets as you approach him, voice modulated through his helmet. Your smirk grows into a genuine grin as he taps his data pad against his thigh in an absentminded manner. “What’re you doing here this late?”

You stand akimbo before him and arch a brow. “What, I can’t hang out in an empty hanger if I want? I’m a free agent.” You let your sarcasm hang in the air for a moment and watch Rex’s head cock to the side. “I’m completing a maintenance request,” you say finally, plucking a piece of tape off your forearm and replacing it in nearly the same spot. You throw a thumb over your shoulder. “The HUD of a LAAT conked out as it was landing. And the deck officer thinks I’m an electrical engineer, even though I told him I’m strictly screws and bolts.” 

Rex hums, low in his chest. “Deck officers never listen.”

“Yeah, well, the Republic never sleeps, even if I’m dying to. By sunrise tomorrow, I’m sure I’ll be up to my ears in maintenance requests.” You shift your weight and you eye him. “You know, I could ask you the same question – what are you doing here so late? Shouldn’t you be at 79’s living it up? Cracking open a cold one?”

Rex stands a little straighter, hand coming to rest on the back of his neck. “I, uhh…” He holds the data pad out to you and huffs a halfhearted laugh. His voice shrinks. “I’m filling out a maintenance request.”

The grin falls from your face as you scan the pad, deciphering in his scratchy handwriting in the notes section of the form. **_Intense carbon scoring on hull. Missing hyperspace ring clamp. Fuel cells damaged, leaking. Astromech socket damaged._**

Eyes narrowing with each letter, you chew the inside of your cheek and glare back up at Rex, lips pursed into a thin line.

He clears his throat and rubs his neck, armor-clad torso stretching with the movement. “Heh. Sorry ‘bout that. General Skywalker’s a terrific pilot – it’s landing that gives him trouble.”

You glare at him a second more. At least he has the decency to be sheepish about it.

You suck your teeth and sigh. “Not your fault. But next time I see Skywalker, I might just have to kick his ass. That Jedi should know his reckless flying gives me more work.” You eye the fighter, discolored streaks traveling up the scarlet hull. A hand rests on your hip. “That carbon scoring is going to be a bitch to get off of there. He’s lucky I’m good at this.”

You don’t miss the little shake of Rex’s head at your comment. “I guess that’s why we keep you around.” The smile in his voice is evident, giving his words a sweet lint of which you wish to hear more.

The smirk began to bloom again – you bite your lip to keep it from growing. “I can think of a few other reasons.” You turn from the fighter to face the captain fully, not bothering to hide the way your eyes rake over his frame. He’s tall, built like an oak, the plastoid plating covering his body making him larger than life. His armor is a bit scuffed in places, evidence of his life on the field of battle, but you know by tomorrow it would look good as new, cleaned and cared for by tender hands. The muscle underneath the unforgiving white plates is hard and tight, as was needed to lead his men into a firefight, to carry his company to victory. Or, to carry you – to a bed, a wall, a workbench…even an unused holotable one time. That was a hassle to clean up afterward, but worth it.

“Did you need something?”

Rex’s question is genuine, no hint of teasing in his tone, and it knocks you out of your stupor enough to return your focus to his helmet. You cough once, twice, and clear your throat. “Yeah, actually. I wanted to – I mean, listen, I…” Your mouth hangs open as you stare at where his eyes are under his bucket, your brain racing to catch up to your rambling words. Your eyes dance across the face of his helmet as you formulate a coherent thought to voice. “I heard something over there,” you blurt out louder than you mean to and point to a far corner of the hanger overrun with supply crates.

Rex twists his torso to the area in which you point. “What did it sound like? Could just be a sweeper droid.”

“No!” You’re being too aggressive, you know it. Rex swings back around to face you and tilts his head in question. “No, it wasn’t – I know what a sweeper droid sounds like. No, it was more like…kind of like a…uhh…” Alarms are going off in your brain at how much you didn’t think this through. You play with the idea of abandoning this whole charade to instead simply push him against the fighter and ravish him out here in the open, but you’d come this far. And besides, toying with the man was more fun.

“There was yelping.” You’re reaching now, grasping at reasons to guide him to the secluded corner. “And scratching. Yeah, lots of scratching.”

Rex stands from his relaxed stance against the fighter and looks back over his shoulder to the corner, arms crossed over his wide chest. “Hmm. You think it’s a creature of some sort?”

The nod you give is too enthusiastic, too eager. “Yes, oh yes, definitely. Sounded organic.” You’re steadier on your feet now, the story coming together nicely despite the under-baked outline. You take a few steps closer to Rex and stand on your toes to look over his shoulder with him. “Who knows what we might have picked up planet-hopping around the Mid-Rim. Could be anything.” A hand reaches up to his pauldron and you feel him tense, only for a second. “And seeing as I’m all by my lonesome in this big hanger, with nothing to protect myself besides a wrench and soldering iron…” You let your voice trail off into a suggestion, one that you hope the captain will pick up on.

Rex hums. His helmet turns to you, not a far journey considering your face is close enough to see the brush strokes of blue paint above his eye slits. You feel him studying you through the helmet. “You want me to check it out?” he asks quietly.

“Consider it repayment for filling up my work schedule when we’re supposed to be on leave.”

The journey to the supply crates feels longer than it is, but your mind is preoccupied on all the potential ways this scenario can play out. Once you cornered him, you’d have to convince him to play your little game basically out here in the open – towering supply crates are a different environment than a cramped supply closet, even if both come with the risk of being discovered by a passerby. A supply closet has a lock. Stacked crates are just that – stacked crates, moveable and hardly private. No doors to be locked here. Yeah, Rex might take some convincing. A challenge you’re more than willing to accept.

The two of you weave through boxes, the stacks getting taller the further you venture into the labyrinth of grey durasteel cubes. You follow closely behind Rex, not paying much attention to where he’s leading you, instead distracted by the way his body moves, broad shoulders leading down to narrow hips that sway with each confident step. “Yelping and scratching, huh? What do you think it could be?”

“Could be something big,” you supply, stretching your story to near tall-tale. You’re quiet for a moment, racking your brain for some intergalactic creature to pin your phantom noises on. “Probably a mynock.”

Rex scoffs. “A mynock, really? Sounds more like a loth-cat to me.”

“No, I really think there’s a loose mynock back here.” You lay it on thick. “Thank the stars your big, strong arms are here to protect me.”

Rex actually laughs at that, and you wish he’d take his helmet off so you could see the pink you know is tinging the tips of his ears. “Right. I’m about to fight some creature for you and all you can think about are my arms.”

“I’m thinking about how your arms are about to wrangle this stowaway mynock that hitched a ride on The _Resolute_ right under our collective noses.”

You both finally reach a dead end, crates stacked high above your heads to touch the ceiling of the hanger. Some lone boxes are scattered here and there, two or three on top of each other with singles sitting in front. Perfect height to perch on so your feet just brush the floor. You glance behind you and grin at the semi-enclosed space you find yourself in: the only way out the narrow, winding walkway you had entered from. Your voices echo off the surrounding crates and you feel for a moment you are trapped in a high tower somewhere, nothing around you but grey and steel and Rex. Things were coming together nicely.

“I don’t hear anything.”

You turn back to the captain, brows raised. You pretend to listen, eyes dancing around the space. “Hmm. Weird. Maybe it got away.”

Rex tilts his chin down. You feel the hard gaze through his helmet. “Uh huh. How convenient.”

Wide eyes and lax expression help sell your look of innocence. “I know I heard something. Maybe it’s just hiding. Maybe – just check over here.” You point to a nearby crate. “It might be behind it.”

Rex grumbles your name and sighs, shaking his head. “There’s nothing back here.”

“Oh stars, just look.”

Rex gazes at you for a beat before his arms fall from across his chest in defeat. He tugs on the crate you had indicated, mumbling his woes as he did so. “Kriffing mynock. Nothing back here but dust.” His body is half-sprawled over the crate to get a good look behind it, and he reaches an arm down between the box and the wall, feeling for anything out of the ordinary. “Still got reports to finish. A _mynock_. Come on.”

Unbeknownst to Rex, you slink up behind him, careful to keep your body from touching his. You crane your neck and looked down to the space where his cuirass usually meets the back of his helmet, delighted to find the angle at which he stretches over the crate reveals the neck of his blacks, along with a delicious strip of tanned skin that bleeds into bleached fuzz at the nape.

Oh, this was too perfect.

“Okay, I looked, there’s nothing ba- _aahhhh_.” Rex’s words melt into a strained sigh as you reach down and caress the newly exposed skin, your fingers skimming the short, soft hairs. Rex all but collapses against the crate, head falling forward to surrender more of this sensitive area to your wandering hand. You allow the weight of your body to push against him, your front to his back, and he groans low and long at your ministrations. His armor is cold against your bare arms, the unforgiving edges pushing into you at the awkward angle, but it’s easy to withstand with your captain supple and yielding beneath your touch.

“Sure you don’t see anything down there?” you ask, voice but a breath.

“I don’t – _**oh**_.” Another groan as you push into a tight spot on the right side of his neck. “You know there’s nothing down here,” he grits out, and for a second time you wish his helmet was off so you could hear the strain in his voice without the modulation.

“Maybe I’m hearing things.” You ease your weight off of him and he stands slowly, your hand still massaging his neck. Your other hand reaches to fiddle with his gloved fingers, thick and long like the rest of him. They twitch at your touch and his quick inhale is badly hidden. “I could be hallucinating,” you mumble. “You might now even be here right now. This could all be a dream.”

“Nah,” Rex says, voice tight. “I’ve had those dreams. The real thing is always better.”

Your hand drops from his neck and he whines. You relish the sound; it’s sweet and syrupy and leaves you tingling, embers burning hotter in the deepest parts of you. No one else sees this Rex – the docile, pliable man ready and willing to do anything you ask, to be molded into whatever shape you wish. You round his body to face him and hop up on the supply crate he was leaning over just moments before. Knees spread wide, you jimmy your fingers between his cuisses and codpiece and tug him toward you, his body fitting snugly against your own. “Captain Rex, am I hearing that you have inappropriate dreams about me?”

He looms over you, bringing a hand up to the wall behind your head to support himself. He’s boxing you in, his body overtaking your field of view, helmet inches from your face. “Extremely inappropriate,” he replies, smooth and low, taking his time to taste each syllable. “Some might say lewd, even.” His other hand finds a home on your knee, thumb caressing small circles over your flight suit. “The kind of stuff you don’t discuss in good company.” His hand is venturing higher up your thigh, fingers dancing across the thick orange fabric. You curse the thought of trying to get out of the outfit in a reasonable amount of your limited time, but you’d do it for him. Anything for him.

You smirk up into the helmet, jaig eyes looking down at you. “It’s a good thing I’m not good company.”

Rex laughs through his nose, his large hand brushing across the expanse of your thigh. “No, you’re the best.”

You smile at that, genuine and warm, crows feet appearing at the corner of your eyes. You reach up to caress the side of his helmet. “Take this off,” you request quietly.

Rex’s hand on your leg stills. “I’m still on duty, y’know.”

You scoff. “What a coincidence. So am I.”

“I don’t want to start something I can’t —“ he cuts himself off with a sigh and dips his head so his forehead touches yours. “Anyone could walk back here and see —“

“I just want to see your face, that’s all,” you say, interrupting him. “Come on. Let me see you. Please.”

A silence hangs between your bodies only for a moment, thick and full to the brim with the possibilities of where his next action might lead. Things unspoken, not needing to be uttered aloud, linger in the space between your mingled breaths. Heat radiates from the place his hand is splayed on your thigh, the weight of it deliciously heavy, anchoring you to the moment, to him. You could be anywhere right now – nestled in the hanging gardens of Naboo; under the brightly colored flora of Felucia; on the edge of a large, plush bed in a luxury apartment on the highest levels of Coruscant. Sitting on a hard, uncomfortable durasteel crate in the back corner of a Republic hanger. It doesn’t matter, none of it matters except Rex and you and you and Rex, right now, alone, so close, both tired and hungry and _wanting_ for only each other.

His hand lifts off your thigh achingly slow, like he can’t bear to leave it, and reaches for the lip of his helmet. He lifts it off in a smooth motion, and your eyes devour the new scenery like it’s the first time you’ve seen it: chiseled jaw, plush lips, wide, long nose, honeyed eyes, a prominent brow, and the signature blonde buzz sloping over his skull. His brown skin accents it all, a warm color that has darkened the past few weeks from missions on a variety of hot, sunny planets. 

He was beautiful. He didn’t even know how beautiful he was.

He smirks at your admiration, and leans back down toward you. “Okay, it’s off. Now what exactly were you planning on –“

You don’t let him finish. You can’t. Now when his lips move hypnotically as he speaks, and his eyes twinkle with barely hidden mischief.

You surge up to meet him halfway and slot your lips against his in a bruising kiss. He’s a bit stunned at first, you can tell from the way he tenses and backs up a fraction, but you just follow him, push into him until you’re standing again, on your toes in an attempt to be level with him. Rex grabs your arms, hands sliding down to your hands, fingers dancing among your own before they fumble to your waist. He’s trying to gain traction, find his feet beneath him as you take the lead.

You’re handling him, rotating the both of you until he’s the one falling onto the supply crate, sitting as the back of his knees hit the hard edge of durasteel. Your mouth moves against his with fervor, hands running over his buzzed head, down his shoulders to his chest, his upper arms. You take his bottom lip between your teeth and work the soft tissue, pulling him toward you. He lets out a wanton moan and you swallow it whole, devouring him with the hunger of a person starved. His head is spinning and he can’t decide what to do with his hands. His neck cranes up to meet your advances. He’s just trying to keep up.

You push Rex back further on the crate until his upper back hits the wall, and proceed to climb up to straddle his lap. His hands find the back of your thighs and he pulls you flush against his hard frame. The muscles in your legs strain as you force them wider, until your core is sitting on the curved plastoid of his codpiece. Though the thick material of your flight suit separates you from any real friction, you grind down on the man beneath you for some semblance of relief. The pressure is just enough to make you gasp, and you repeat the motion. Rex hums into your mouth, and you reach up to his chest plate, your fingers finding their way between the top edge and his blacks, and you tug at the offending armor keeping you from feeling the heat of his body.

Rex chuckles against your lips, and his voice is full of gravel when he speaks. “Needy, ain’t ya?”

Your movements stutter at his words. Eyes opening, you pull away from Rex and stop him when he tries to follow. He grunts and opens his own eyes, searching your face for the reason you stopped. Your fingers untangle from his chest plate. One of your brows raises so you’re gazing at him with a disbelieving look.

Rex shakes his head, like he’s trying to jumble up everything that’s transpired in the last ten seconds to see if any of it fits together and makes sense. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I’m needy? You’re saying _I’m_ the needy one?”

Rex looks at you with those wide doe eyes before he groans and lets his head fall back against the wall. “Oh, _kark_ , come on. It was just —”

You scoff, a harsh sound. “No, please, elaborate on how I have an outrageous libido that cannot be contained.”

“Y’were pulling at me – _**come on**_!” he repeats in a heavier tone, looking at you down his nose. “Don’t do this to me. Not now.”

You sit up on your knees and look down at him. His face flushed a deep rose, lips swollen, eyes half-glazed. All worked up and nowhere to go. “Let me remind you that is was not three days ago someone pushed me into a supply closet on The _Resolute_ –“

Rex groans your name helplessly, throwing his arm up to tuck his nose into the crook of his elbow. “You don’t have to do this.”

“–tugged my pants down with the ferocity of a gundark in heat, my nice official uniform pants, by the way–“

“Okay, I get it.”

“–only to drop to his knees in front of me on the unforgiving floor and practically beg to taste my–“

“ ** _Okay_** ,” Rex interrupts you in a hard voice, blindly reaching a hand out to cover your mouth, the words spilling from it making his already hot face burn in a harsh blush. “That’s enough. You’ve made your point.”

His hand misses its target and you keep speaking. At least this time you’re a bit quieter, taking mercy on him. “You really couldn’t get enough. Not that I’m complaining.” Your tone fills with mirth, and you take his hand that reached out to stop you and position it on your waist. “You should have seen your face, an absolute mess, pleading for _one more, just one more, please I need it again, need to see you_ –“

You yelp as the hand on your waist tugs you down, your torso bumping with his. Your faces level, nose brushing against his. He stares into your eyes, gaze heated, severe, and you take the moment to admire the ornate golden color of his irises. “I said that’s enough,” he whispers, that gravel returning to his voice and setting your insides on fire. He breathes heavily through his nose, like he’s holding back some untamed side of him that you rarely get to see.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” you offer gently, swiping your thumb across his prominent cheekbone. “I love it when you’re like that.” A wicked smirk grows on your lips, plump and wet from kissing him. “Just absolutely _drunk_ off my –“

This time, it was his turn to meet you, silencing your next word with his soft and sure lips. This kiss was softer, less aggressive, but there was something hidden underneath Rex’s gentleness. Hot coals waiting to catch, all it needs is a puff of breath and you know you’ll be a goner.

These secluded moments with Rex are always a thrill and oftentimes not planned until one of you is pulling the other away from prying eyes. You strive to find the quiet moments between blaster fire and months-long campaigns – the hidden serenity when the two of you can be alone and focus only on each other, hyper aware of the movement of hands and mingling of breath, of the shared heat of sweat-slicked bodies and the heavy feeling deep in your gut, like you swallowed a stone taken from a fire and it’s still smoldering.

These moments are getting harder and harder to find between your mutual work schedules, the war taking the front seat in everyone’s mind. But when you did manage to wrangle time to yourselves (more and more often thanks to the finessed handiwork of General Skywalker, the Jedi an expert at making flippant schedule changes look like best use of resources) you always savor it, wishing you could bottle it up and save it for a rainy day. 

It’s in these moments with Rex that you allow yourself to be wistful, if only for a moment. You can’t help but think what it might be like in the whimsical world people called _afterwards_.

Your romantic musing is interrupted by the weight of Rex’s hands on your hips. He’s pulling you down onto him, your clothes core coming into contact with his rounded codpiece once more. You sigh at the pressure and grind yourself down on him, his strong hands pulling you over the armor again, and a third time, then a fourth, over and over like the swell of the sea. Your kisses gain ferocity, teeth catching on soft lips, gasps and groans melting into one another, until you push your tongue against his and taste the roof of his mouth.

Rex moans, long and low, and his grips tightens. But it’s not enough. You need more – so much more. You need to feel him.

You untangle your arms from around his neck and bring your hands to your flight suit sleeves, working the knot loose as you continue to kiss the captain. You mouth along his jaw, feeling the barely-there stubble against your lips. With your sleeves untied, you reach to one of your boots and begin on the laces.

Rex’s hands skim up your front. They’re unable to find a way under your tank top – it’s tucked into the flight suit – so he settles for massaging your breasts through the worn cotton of the shirt. Your breath hitches just as you reach that sensitive spot behind his ear, mouthing at it more when he groans into your shoulder. Not only are you trying to untie your boots unseeing and with one hand, but the feel of Rex’s warm skin and wandering hands are making the task all the more difficult.

As if he reads your mind, one of his hands leaves your chest to place itself over your own struggling fingers. “Lemme do it,” he says, breathless. “Wanna help you.”

You let him. You’d let him help you any which way he wanted.

You don’t know how, but the boot comes off. Next is the pant leg, your leg squirming out of the orange fabric. You’re less than half dressed, the opposite leg still clothed and booted. You’re sure it’s a silly sight, like a toddler who tried to dress themselves but gave up when it proved too hard, the majority of your outfit trailing behind you. The cold air of the hanger assaults your skin, goosebumps rising over everything that’s newly exposed. But you’re too worked up to care, and as you stand from your position over Rex, he looks you over like a carnivore being taunted with fresh meat.

You feel the wetness between your thighs, feel your underwear sticking to you with an uncomfortable slick. You know he’s looking.

Fingers finding purchase on the top edge of his thigh plate, you tug. “This damn armor never comes off when I want it to.”

Hands, now gloveless, skim over the delicate skin on the back of your thigh, right below the round of your cheeks. “It’s gonna take too long to get all this off, _cyare_.” He leans forward to mouth at your bare shoulder, his wandering hands getting braver as they fully cup your ass. “Let me do what I do best.” His voice rumbles from his body to yours as he squeezes his hands. “Let me take care of you like I know you love.”

The offer is tempting, and your gasp is involuntary. Very similar words were rushed out as he kissed down your body not three days ago, finally resting on his knees before you like a man praying for bountiful blessings. And what a sight it was. By the end of the ordeal, you were still upright solely due to Rex’s strong arms holding your thighs apart, the bottom half of his face glistening, a string of spit and your own arousal connecting his chin to your cunt.

You’d almost come again from the sight alone. But you’d had to push him away (with a whine from him) after the fourth one. It was nearing too much.

You think fondly of the encounter as you give the thigh plate another tug, this time with the straps unclipped. It came off with a bit of resistance, and you tossed it to the ground. “I don’t need them _all_ off,” you clarify, “just this one.” You shove Rex back with force, his calloused fingers grazing your skin, leaving streaks of fire across the back of your thighs, his pupils blown wide. Crawling back on top of him, you settle your core over the thick expanse of his thigh, still covered by his blacks. But the heat still seeps through, as does the feel of the taut muscle underneath. You grind your clothed cunt over his thigh, hands anchored to his shoulders. You look at him from under your lashes, delighted to see his wide eyes and mouth ajar, and your lips quirk into the beginnings of a smirk. “And I can take care of myself.”

And so you begin, your hips finding a steady rhythm as you roll them over the hard muscle. The feeling’s not quite where you need it to be, two layers of thin fabric still separating your skin from his, but it’s already so much better than the flight suit on codpiece action from a few minutes ago. There’s just enough friction, and when you roll forward enough there’s a seam in your panties that catches your clit and makes your breath lodge in your throat. You think if you can just keep this up long enough, you’ll definitely get there.

And then Rex’s hands come to rest on your hips, big and sturdy and calloused, and they don’t tug at you or push you away, instead simply sitting there like that’s where they’ve belonged this whole time. He lets you set the pace, half-lidded eyes dancing across your figure like he can’t decide what to focus on – the way you worry your bottom lip between your teeth, how your body bows toward him every time you lurch forward, or the growing wetness that’s seeping through your underwear and onto his blacks and leaving a trail of evidence along the fabric.

Rex’s fingers dig into your hips and he helps you move, like the moon to the tide, an ever present guiding force to aid you until you’re crashing into the rocky coastline. He opens his mouth and his lips tremble in an attempt to form words. “I – you —” He gulps air like he’s drowning. “ _Gods_ , you’re fuckin’ gorgeous.”

Something swells inside you at his words, at the way his voice claws its way out his throat. Your rhythm stutters for a second. You know you’ll get over the edge one way or another. 

Rex flexes his thigh beneath you and begins to subtly lift it a few inches every time you grind down. Your cunt flutters around nothing, aching for something, anything to clench around. You huff at the empty feeling, and suddenly you’re unsure if leaving your underwear on was a horrible oversight. You fiddle with the waistband, unsure if you should stop to take them off. You don’t want to stop. You never want to stop, not when you’re nearly halfway there, the coil in your abdomen growing tighter with each brush of your clit against the hard muscle of Rex’s thigh. Not when the man below you is looking at you like you hung the twins suns of Tatooine yourself, soft and hard in all the right places, gladly bending to your will as you took what you wanted from him.

You can’t stop. But that empty feeling persists even as your clit is worked nicely enough. _Fuck_. Maybe you should have thought this through more. What a buzzkill it would be to realize this won’t end the way you desperately want it to.

Your eyes, not having realized you closed them, snap open at the sound of ripping fabric. Rex lifts you off his thigh for less than a second before he pushes you back down and your bare cunt comes into direct contact with the soft, damp fabric of his blacks. He holds your panties in one hand, the garment ripped along the side seam, and he looks at them like they’re a prized treasure won in a hard fought battle.

Your wide-eyed gaze is glued to his hand as Rex brings the fabric up to his flushed face and inhales, long and hard through his nose. His eyes laze open to meet yours. He mumbles something in Mando’a from behind the garment before lowering it and speaking to you in standard. “I love to get drunk off your sweet cunt.”

You are so fucked.

The friction against your core is newfound and even better than before. Everything is a bit faster, a bit rougher, your easy rhythm eager and just this side of frantic as you chase your release against Rex’s thigh. Moving is easier now with only a single layer of fabric separating his skin from yours, and your slick arousal eases your rutting. You’re sure you can reach that high, now, with the way Rex’s hands slip down to anchor on your ass and the rough grind against your sensitive clit.

But the empty feeling is still there. You notice it when you clench and wish something thick and solid was inside you. Luckily, there’s something thick and solid lounging beneath you, his expression wanton and lax, mouth hanging open as he watches you.

You take one of Rex’s hands as you continue rutting against him. “I need you to do something for me,” you say and try to stop your voice from trembling. “Can you help me, Rex?”

The captain struggles to sit up a bit straighter. His gaze flickers with anticipation. “I’ll do anythin’ for ya,” he sighs, words slurring together like he’s truly drunk. His eyes search your face. “Please. Tell me. I’ll do anythin’. I’ll fuckin’ – _ahh_.” The nails of your free hand run over his buzzed scalp before he can get all the words out, his eyes rolling back. “Oh gods, woman. Let me – let me bring you there, please. Wanna see ya come.”

A small smile blooms on your lips at his blissed out face. You lean in, brush your lips across the shell of his ear. “You’re so good to me, Rex. My captain.” His hand is pliant in your own and so much larger, and you maneuver it so his fingers find your dripping cunt.

A gasp quickly morphs into a heady moan from the man below you as he begins to work his fingers through your wetness. “Oh _fuck_ , you’re soaked.” You slide forward on his thigh until the digits reach your entrance. “This what you want?” he asks, out of breath, the tip of one finger dipping into your core. You whine as he sinks it into your cunt to the knuckle. “Take what you want from me, _cyare_. I’ll give you exactly what you need.” Another one slips in easily and now you’re grinding down on Rex’s hand, his fingers brushing against that secret place only he can reach.

In the back of your mind, the part that is still thinking about that unfulfilled maintenance request, you muse about how the same hands that playfully shove his brothers, that map out battle plans, that high-five the commander after a successful mission, that can cradle a newborn loth-cat so delicately, are also able to bring you the the brink of oblivion time and time again.

You’re gasping as he adds a third finger, helplessly rutting against Rex’s palm as he finger fucks you. “Don’t stop,” you command, your words thick and heavy. “Don’t you dare stop.”

Rex shakes his head. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You’re close. So deliciously close you can taste it. One of your hands cradling the back of Rex’s head travels to his cheek. You caress his cheekbone with your thumb, his soft skin warm under your fingertips. His gaze is trained on your own, eyes assessing your journey to euphoria, taking in each little falter of your hips, how your gasps and sighs become quiet moans and whimpers. He’s working you the way he knows best, playing your body like a firefight simulation, and boy is he an expert. He crooks his fingers within you, the heel of his hand works against our clit, and you groan, the wire deep in your core that’s holding you together taut and ready to snap any second.

“Oh fuck, Rex,” you mutter, your breathing uneven and haphazard. “I’m gonna…I’m gonna…”

“Give it to me,” he begs under his breath. “Love it when you use me like this. Wanna see. Wanna feel you. Let me see it, please.”

You’re teetering on the precipice. The muscles of your thighs scream at the stretch as you try to lower yourself further down on his hand. Your own is mapping the ridges and planes his face, attempting to anchor yourself to reality in any way you can. Your index and middle finger catch on his lower lip, still plump and red from your biting it earlier, and his mouth opens without your asking. He maintains intense eye contact as he sucks your fingers into his mouth, his tongue soft, wet, and without realizing it you reach further back until you brush the back of his throat. He gags once, his tongue dancing beneath your fingertips, but he groans around them afterward and sucks, hard.

“Oh, **_fuck_** ,” you grit through clenched teeth, your face twisting into a pained expression, and you’re a goner.

You’re falling, and flying, and floating still in the air. Your whole body convulses, cunt clenching hard around Rex’s thick fingers that still pump into you, his thumb circling your clit with deft movements. A silent scream paints your face, your mouth hanging open, eyes rolling back into your skull. Electricity snaps beneath your skin like you’ve been struck by lightning, the thin wire that’s been holding you to the planet snaps, the smoldering embers that have been lingering in your stomach now turn to flames and engulf you whole. “ _Yes, yes, yes,_ ” you utter like a prayer, in time with each contraction of your gushing core. You fall forward onto Rex, your forehead slotting into the space between his pauldron and neck, and you feel him rather than hear him moan around your fingers, still deep in his hot mouth. He works you through your high, fingers slowing until his pace turns lazy and lethargic.

You try to catch your breath, the cool plastoid of Rex’s pauldron wonderfully cool against your sweaty forehead. Your fingers fall from his mouth, smearing against his chin and his chest plate. He extracts his own from your core and you can’t help the shiver that ripples through you, nor the whine that wiggles its way through your parted lips. Before you can find the strength to sit upright, Rex’s takes his own fingers into his mouth like they’re covered in sticky sweet honey. He sucks on them loudly, and in any other nonsexual situation you would have scrunched your nose at the noise, the voracious manner in which he strives to get every last drop a bit unbecoming for a captain of one of the best legions in the GAR. But it’s _you_ that he’s greedily devouring, your juices that he had drawn out of you. Despite the filth that had just transpired, your cheeks flush.

“You’re too good to me,” you mumble into his shoulder.

You hear the _pop_ of his fingers leaving his mouth. “You let me do _this_ kinda stuff and you think I’d be anything but good to you?”

Pushing off him, you smile, something secret and gentle just under the surface. Your eyes dance over his face. “You are the biggest sap I know.” You reach for his codpiece, thinking of the discomfort you know he must be feeling. You pull weakly at the piece of armor. “I can —”

Rex rests his large hands over yours, prying your fingers from the codpiece. “I’m fine for now,” he says gently, gazing at you. “This was enough for me.”

You smile at him, saccharine, and something flutters inside you. How did you get so lucky? You’ll have to treat him _real_ good later tonight.

Redressing commences, the reality of the cold hanger rushing back to you in your afterglow. You lift off of Rex’s thigh on unsteady legs, the large wet spot unmistakable on his regulation blacks. “Oh dear,” you muse in a quiet voice, fingers reaching down to brush against the stain. Yup, definitely soaked.

Rex matches your eyeline, and he hums in thought. “Should probably change now.”

The missing cuisse is not far, and you pick it up from where it lays near your discarded work boot. “No need,” you say, placing the thigh plate over the stain and securing the straps. “There. Can’t even tell it’s there.”

Rex eyes you with a quirk of a brow. He’s smirking but trying to make it look stern. “ _I_ can tell.”

You lean down to kiss him chastely, sweetly. “That’s kinda the point, Captain.” He smiles against your lips.

You finagle your other pant leg back on and tuck your tank top into the orange suit. The sleeves tie easily around your waist. You reach for your boot, but Rex gently pushes your shoulder so you sit on the supply crate he’s been occupying. “Let me,” he says. He fits the boot over your sock and ties the industrial-grade laces with deft and delicate fingers.

He helps you up and makes to leave your little alcove, but you stop him. “Wait.” You’d plucked your ripped and slightly damp panties from next to you and hid them in your fist as Rex tied your boot. You open your hand to reveal them, relishing the way a flush rises in his cheeks and blooms down his neck. He swallows as you reach for his utility belt, opening the small pouch there and tucking your underwear inside. You close the zipper. “For safekeeping.” 

Rex clears his throat, avoiding your gaze. “I’ll, uhh, I’ll buy you new ones.”

“Sure you will,” you say, and you offer him his helmet. “What would your boys think if they caught you sneaking contraband into the barracks?”

The helmet slips over his head easily, familiar jaig eyes looking down at you. “I sneak you in, they don’t seem to care much.”

Your shove is not meant to be hard. “I am not _contraband_. I work here, y’know.” You lead him through the maze of crates until you’re back in the open area of the hanger. Skywalker’s damaged fighter and your LAAT electrical problem are still sitting there, waiting for your expert hands to ease their woes. “And for your information, I’m still on duty.”

Rex cocks his head toward you, and you hear the mirth in his voice. “What a coincidence,” he replies with a hint of mischief. “So am I.”


End file.
